Flaws
by Beetle Whisperer
Summary: Dawn Mercer brings death and destruction upon everyone she talks to. So what happens when she takes an interest in Scott Barnett, out of all people? And what about knowing one of his deepest secrets? And why stars? And who are the hunters? What are the Flawed? And most importantly, why does Scott feel like this is getting out of hand? Rated T for language. Dott and other ships.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: So, I've been experimenting with styles and formats lately, and thought I'd do a little project. _**

**_Warnings: Supernatural Powers-AU; Lots of crude language ahead (especially in this chapter); Shipping Ahoy! (though not in this chapter)_**

**_Reviews mean as much to the author as unlimited money means to the penniless. _**

* * *

_Introduction to the Art of Map-Reading_

"Stars are like a map," she told him as they lay on the cold ground one night; her idea, not his. Sometimes he wondered if it was ever his idea. "A very detailed, very hard to interpret map," she continued. "Only an incredibly bright mind can do it."

Back then, he thought it was a load of bullshit. Even now he still did. But somewhere, somehow, this load of bullshit gained more importance as his own life seemed to lose any flicker of sense it had. Sometimes he wanted to hurt her, to shake her, to wake her up and yell at her—tell her he was not brave, he was not fantastic, he was not a hero.

But he knew what she'd reply: "You're flawed. And in the scheme of things, that's perfect."

He'd stopped pushing it away, denying it and going against it. He'd stopped screaming so much. But internally, he couldn't help but protest. He never asked for the stars or for the flaws—he never wanted his life to become the mess it was right now. He never wished to be special, or perfect, or flawed, or fantastic. He wanted to be and was Scott. Just Scott.

So, Scott just Scott would normally turn his head and scoff at her because that was such a load of poetic crap. But somewhere along the ride, Scott just Scott seemed to forget he was angry.

He asked: "Like yours?"

"What?"

"A bright mind—like yours."

To his surprise, she looked back at him, features relaxed but serious and shook her head. "It takes much brighter than that."

He leaned on his elbow to look at her. "How much?"

Her only reply was to look at the sky above, now completely dotted with tiny, bright freckles.

* * *

**-96 Days until the Blackout-**

_History of Witchcraft 101_

The library was silent, small and dark, supposedly like every library in every small public high school in the middle of nowhere. Students whispered to each other between the aisles, at the study tables, and by the door; the librarian barely cared for silence, as long as the noise was bearable and able to talk over. Today, like always, there weren't many students in the library. Barely a quarter of the small number of places at study tables was occupied, and in one of these sat Scott Barnett.

Redheaded, spiky-haired and with a grimace that could rival every disgruntled cartoon character's in existence, he stuck out in the library like a sore thumb. Perhaps it wasn't his looks that led to this as much as his attitude did; the other students sent vary looks his way, and once or twice the librarian looked like she was about to rush over to his table, lest he burn or rip a book or a student. Yet, he stood the quietest, stillest and read.

He needed a passing grade. That much was clear to him. To get a passing grade, he needed to study. That much was clear to him, too. But studying was hard, especially when it came to History. It took him over twenty minutes to realize he had taken the wrong book to study out of, and he still had too much pride to admit to that and pick the right one. He kept reading and not understanding, and reading, and not understanding. He grew frustrated, but this was one of the only situations where throwing a tantrum and getting physical wouldn't help.

And then, someone sat down in the chair opposite his. He wasn't bothered by it at first—and then he remembered how many empty chairs there were left in the study area. He looked up, only to come face to face with a rather pixie-looking blonde. She was smiling eerily at him.

"Figures," he grumbled under his breath. "Whaddya want?"

"Just to talk."

His scoff was loud enough to earn him a 'shh'. "You never want just to talk with anyone, Mercer. You always swoop in next to some unsuspecting victim, tell them something fucking creepy about them and ruin their life."

She looked a bit taken aback, if not a little offended, but she recovered with a lazy smile. "Completely untrue. I really just want to talk, Scott."

"Do you seriously think I was born yesterday?" he glared at her, and slammed the history book closed for emphasis. ("Shh!") "Fuck off," he hissed in her direction.

"I just want to talk."

"Can't you just 'read my aura' or whatever witch crap you do and get it over with? Or actually, don't bother, because that's exactly what my aura says: Fuck. Off."

He pushed himself out of his chair and stood up suddenly, grabbing his bag and heading towards the door with hurried steps. He didn't bother gracing the librarian with a glance. Even with his head start and considerably longer legs, however, Dawn Mercer materialized next to him in no time at all. It was creepy how she did that—how she did everything, in fact. From the way she walked almost like she was floating, from the way she smiled in that all-knowing way of hers. If there was anyone the student body feared more than Scott, it was her.

And if there was anyone Scott feared, even if only slightly, it was her.

"I," she started, the tone of her voice sounding rather amused. In no more than three moves, she twirled on her feet and stepped left then forward, cutting him off, "just want to talk," she tilted her head to the side, as if she was considering him.

He imitated her voice, raising it a couple of octaves, mockingly. "And I," he pushed past her, "don't."

"It's not true, you know," she called after him, and he heard her soft footsteps approaching. He sped up his pace. "What they say about me. _I'm _not the ones making people disappear."

"You mean die gruesomely," he cut her off.

She made a sound of contemplation. "Not exactly."

Unable to contain himself, he whirled around. Dawn had already stopped, as if she'd predicted this. God. "The hell you mean 'not exactly'? What, like the news reportages are fake?"

A longer pause followed. Then, in the same tone: "Not exactly."

He smiled humorlessly at her. "Listen, tree-hugging freak," now he'd gotten the slightest bit of reaction from her—something shifted in her eyes, "I'm not wasting my time to listen to your creepy shit, alright? Just cut the chase and tell me when I'm going to die, so I won't bother doing homework or something."

This time, she seemed a bit more agitated. "You're _not _going to die. Not if you listen to me."

His anger was starting to peak again. "I'm _listening _but all I hear is vague bullshit," he crunched up his nose. "You even made me use the word _vague _to describe it."

The corners of her lips twitched as if she was going to smile. He swore to God he might've just lost it if she had. Instead, she told him: "You should really swear less, you know. Swear words have a negative influence on the mood and atmosphere of a room."

Childishly and as if to prove a point, he replied: "Thanks for acting like I give a fuck. Now do you have anything else to say or can you just go off on your merry way and rescue animals and shove tofu down people's throats?"

She blinked up at him. "That's not what I do."

"Don't know what the heck you do, don't care. Do you _actually _have something worthwhile to say?"

"Yes," Dawn Mercer replied sounding as calm as he sounded frustrated. Her voice was whispery, but too high pitched to be entirely quiet—just enough to grate him on his nerves.

She looked around, following one or two students walking down the hall with her eyes. Scott was about to let out another retort when she effectively interrupted him: "I don't think this is a good place, though. Follow me."

And with that, she brushed past him in a whirl of tiny limbs and a lot of blond hair and confidently started going up the staircase to the second floor. He could've huffed, rolled his eyes, and taken off in the completely different direction, all while hoping his post-Mercer death wouldn't be too gruesome or painful. But he didn't. Instead, he threw his backpack on one shoulder and followed her up the stairs—he kept the distance just enough to still be able to follow her path, but also enough so nobody would notice he was walking after her, and not let her know she'd convinced him. But the smug wench she was under that peaceful, life-is-sacred exterior, she probably already knew that.

He scowled. Indeed, if there was anyone Scott Barnett feared, even if only slightly, it was her. And he thought it was about time for that to change.

* * *

"Jesus Christ."

That was the first thing that tumbled out of his mouth, despite the fact he wasn't and had never been religious. Shortly after followed a string of well-chosen curses that made Dawn Mercer turn around to look at him with a mixture of calm, no surprise there, and subtle, but genuine confusion.

Feeling considerably less manly, but also less caring, Scott wrapped his hands around his arms, rubbing up and down; he'd left his jacket in his locker. Rotten luck. "You brought us on the freaking _rooftop _in middle of November."

She turned her head one more time to glance at the horizon before looking back at him, "Rather picturesque, don't you think?"

"Rather fucking cold, don't you think?" he shot back, feeling his teeth clatter. "Is this how I'm going to die? As a human popsicle?"

Unfazed, "You are not going to die," she shook her head, and tugged at the sleeve of her sweater. "And you know, being the middle of November and all, it might've been wiser if you didn't leave your jacket in your locker."

"How do you know where I've put my jacket?" Images of her having followed him around all day filled his brain, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

As if she could read his thoughts, Dawn shook her head. "It isn't that hard to guess. Besides," she paused, her face completely devoid of emotion; with her hair blowing in the wind and her wide eyes, she looked almost threatening despite her doll-like appearance, "you can warm up without using a jacket, can't you?"

He felt his insides freeze, and it was not because of the weather outside. He could—of course he could. But ever since the incident, he swore to himself he wouldn't. And yet, and yet… And how did she know? How the hell did she know?

He tried to talk sense into himself—she didn't know, she was just baiting him. But how would she know what to bait him with? How did she _know_?

No. She couldn't know. The sentence was innocent enough if he deconstructed it—she could be talking about the central heating inside the school. He didn't have to lose his temper and clue her in on the fact there could be more to that statement.

"What are you talking about?" he sounded apathetic, almost bored, to his own surprise.

"Your," a pause for contemplation, "special abilities with fire." She knew. "You shouldn't hide them, or try to push them away, you know. They can feel it anyway—you might as well try to gain control over them."

How did she know, how did she know, _how did she know?_

Her gaze softened, quite suddenly.

"Scott, listen. I don't mean to scare you—"

"Scare me?" his voice came out loud, disbelieving. His vision had darkened and zeroed on her, and inside, he could feel the on-going battle between the ice cold fear and the hot, pulsating anger he felt towards her. Contrasting, strange emotions—downright disturbingly so. Just like Dawn Mercer.

"You're not _scaring _me, you freak," his insult was weak, he'd have to admit, but his voice was strong, angry. This was why people were scared by Dawn Mercer, he assumed. This was the thing that left them terrified for days before they'd turn up in a news reportage—dead. "I'm actually embarrassed for you if you thought that's scaring me. That's nonsense bullshit. I don't have any 'special abilities' with fire, and I have no idea what you're talking about."

Her voice was still soft and whispery as she spoke, and suddenly Scott was glad the wind gave him another pretext for his shivering. "You do, though. I can sense—"

"You can sense _nothing_!" he snapped at her, suddenly forgetting about the cold, about the fire, and about the fact he was on a freaking rooftop in the freaking middle of freaking November with freaking Dawn Mercer. "You're crazy. You're delusional, that's what you are," he told her, but to his embarrassment, his voice shook ever so slightly. "They should lock you up."

"But you don't mean that," she replied, without missing a breath. "You're just scared. I can un—"

"Scared? What do I have to be scared of?" he knew that at this point he was the one who sounded insane, but didn't care. The only thought running through his mind was: _'How does she know? How does she know?' _"Are you even looking at yourself? All it would take is one hit, one push, and you'd be flying off this roof. I could kill you, and you know what? I'd probably get a medal for it."

She didn't even blink. He said things that would make the average student who bumped into him in the hall break down and cry, but Dawn Mercer didn't even bat an eyelash as she regarded him with something resembling pity. And in that moment, Scott didn't know whether he wanted to grab her neck and snap it, or run as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

Then just as calmly as before, "You wouldn't, though."

"Why not? What's stopping me?" he shot back at her, and he was suddenly glad they were up on the freaking roof, where the student body wasn't present to give their pointless opinion and run the rumor mill.

"The fact that you're not a bad person, Scott. You're just acting like one."

That did it for him.

"Stop," he said, and he was pleasantly surprised by how calm, yet resolute his voice sounded. She was unaffected, as usual. "Stop acting like you know me, because I swear to fucking God, Mercer, you don't. You can't understand people with your hippy witchcraft, okay?" he spat at her, turning on his heel, ready to walk off, but kept his eyes firmly locked on hers. "Stop acting like you can."

To his surprise and disbelief, she smiled. It was small and tentative, but it was there. And if Scott wasn't messed up, and angry, and scared, and confused, if he was just a normal teenager who'd never heard of the post-Mercer curse, he would've likely found it really nice to look at. But he was all that, and he was pretty sure he would experience the curse first-hand.

"There are only so many reasons you can be bitter for, Scott," she talked to him as if he was a small child; the smile faded. "I'll be waiting, though. You know where to find me when you'll need me."

"Won't happen," he snapped, just before turning fully to walk off, lest he say or hear something more regrettable.

* * *

"Dude! Barnett!"

He'd almost gotten to his last period when he heard that; he knew he eventually would, so he just sighed and started walking faster. Of course it didn't work, because someone dark-skinned, clad in blue and _very_ solid was at his side before he had time to get to his locker. Was everyone in this darn school faster than him?

"Man, I heard the witch cornered you today. True or not true?" Despite the fact Lightning had probably had to run more than half a hallway to catch up with him, he wasn't even panting. Scott glared at him from his peripheral vision—jock stamina.

He shrugged in response, however. "What does it matter?"

Lightning looked at him, aghast. "Man! Of course it matters. The last person to talk to the witch is, y'know," he made a chocking noise and a slicing motion to his neck. "Sha-dead."

The redhead rolled his eyes. Typical Lightning, down to the freaking stupid prefix he added to everything thinking it made him cool. If it was up to Scott, he would've never picked Lightning as a friend; he was pretty sure Lightning wouldn't have picked him, either. The basis on which their friendship worked on was really simple, though—nobody liked Scott, nobody liked Lightning. Scott was a douchebag with no determination to do absolutely anything unless it hurt people and benefited him, Lightning was a pretty alright, if not conceited, guy who had a will of steel and a competitive nature that was equally hated and feared throughout the school. It made enough sense to them for the past three or four years.

But it would've been easier, a lot easier, to be Lightning's friend if he was at least half as bright as his name suggested.

"Gees, what a shame," he drawled, slamming the door of his locker open once they reached the spot in front of it. The first thing he grabbed was the leather jacket he'd haphazardly thrown in around second or third period. He proceeded to put it on. "I guess I won't get to take the make-up test for History this Thursday."

"This ain't a joke, Barnett," Lightning chastised him almost instantly, leaning his arm against the opened locker door. "I mean, you're a cool guy. I wouldn't want to see you turn up with half your limbs missing on national TV."

"…Thanks, that means a lot to me." Would this guy just shut up already?

"What I'm saying is," he continued, rather loudly, "that, maybe, if you avoid going out like, for the rest of your life—"

"And the fuck should I do about school, eh, dimwit?" Scott interrupted almost instantly. Lightning frowned at him.

"Dude, screw school. You don't even like school!" he spread his arms wide for emphasis, gesturing around. "Nobody in their right mind likes school."

Ah yes, he knew there was a reason he could still stand Lightning. "True. Doesn't change the fact that my only options are school or begging on the streets, though," he replied, dryly.

Lightning cringed sympathetically. "Shit, man. Forgot about that." Of course he did. Lightning usually forgot anything that didn't directly have to do with him. "I was just about to suggest we skip last period and have some smokes, too. I mean, I thought you'd need that after Mercer, y'know?"

Wrong, Scott thought to himself. Lightning just wanted to whine about Coach Hatchet being a major dick, or brag about whatever girl managed to see past his ego and screw him. But he didn't say that, like he'd usually do because, truth was, he did need that after Mercer. He needed Lightning—stupid, dense Lightning, who didn't drag him to the rooftop in the middle of November to blurt creepy facts about his life that he hadn't told anyone. Hell, he'd ever sit through a monologue about how Rosetti wanted him _so _bad and was just acting hard to get if it took his mind off of Dawn Mercer.

He had English next period, too. He was decent at English, and Mrs. Montgomery was probably one of the only teachers who didn't have anything against him.

"Nah," he slammed the door of his locker shut, since he wouldn't bother taking out his textbook anymore. "Let's go for it. I have English with Mrs. M, anyway. She won't give me too much shit about it."

Lightning grinned fully, almost literally from ear-to-ear, "Sha-awesome! Oh, and I gotta tell you something. Man, you would _not _believe it."

'_Here we go'_. They started walking down the corridor, Lightning with his hands at the back of his neck, Scott with his lodged firmly into the pockets of his jacket.

"Does this have to do with Rosetti?"

"Oh, yes. Definitely yes."

"Please don't tell me you tried to show her the 'hula hoops'."

"_Man_! Don't diss the hula hoops."

"Feh."

* * *

For the average Trenton Delaney student, the sight of Dawn Mercer was frightening enough to make them whirl around and go in the opposite direction. The sight of her doing something as unnaturally normal as leaning against a banister from an apartment building's emergency exit and texting, would be enough to make them seek medical care. In fact, it seemed to be unnatural even for Dawn herself, as she fumbled with her thin fingers over the keys to write the message:

_Found him. He's resisting, but I sense he'll come around soon. Progress?_

Send.

She craned her head to look at her surroundings. No one in sight, as usual. The only thing that stuck out from the mass of gray the buildings were made of was a red blanket that Mrs. Jenkins had likely hung up to dry before she went to work. A dog barked from afar, but the sound of cars whizzing by drowned the noise, just as usual. Easily the most unfriendly, abandoned neighborhood, one would say. But for her, it was almost perfect, if not a little too gray.

"_Child," _they spoke into her mind. Whispery, whispery. _"Child, they are coming. Close, so close."_

"_They're coming for the boy."_

"_Help me, help me."_

"_So close, so close."_

Shut up.

And they did. It took years for her to do it—to silence the Spirits in her mind at will, so they wouldn't bother her when it wasn't necessary. The Spirits were selfish and loud. They gave many answers, but gave a number twice as big of questions of their own. How much they begged her to answer them, to help them, help them…

A silent buzz in her right hand and Dawn was snapped out of it and back to her senses. The phone. Of course. Her finger slid over the key, to open the message.

_You sure? We lost too many already. Got SM convinced. Working on CP._

Dawn pursed her lips, doing a headcount. There were thirteen subjects total—excluding herself and B. Two of them were already as good as convinced; three, if she included the illustrious Scott Barnett. He'd been easy to read—stubborn, but not stubborn enough, very prone to anger, having an aura with the ugliest shades she'd seen in at least three years, but a redeemable, though bitter, soul.

So she typed: _100%. Give me two days. Good job._

Then, with an afterthought, added: _We need to meet. You know I hate using these things._

Send.

B was the only reason she'd gotten a phone in the first place. Technology was his domain and the only way of communication he could guarantee to make safe and completely undetectable with a bit of work. That, and the fact that he didn't speak, made texting likely one of his favorite ways of communicating. Dawn didn't need texting, provided she could exchange looks with him.

Which, at a distance, was impossible to do, so the environment would, again, have to suffer for the sake of human lives.

The reply came almost instantly: _Good. We'll meet later. I need you to try and ghoc ; they're two miles away, probably after AR._

She pocketed her phone and sat down, cross-legged. GHOC. Get hunters off course.

With a deep breath and one of her best stances, she closed her eyes and concentrated on letting go and opening the door that sealed her mind from the Spirits. She needed something strong , or at least strong enough to momentarily draw attention to herself.

She let them scream.

"_Help us, help us, help us, HELP US!"_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Hm? What is this smell? It smells like… an update. Oh crud.**_

_**Warnings: [The usual] Supernatural Powers-AU; **_

_**Lots of crude language ahead (please don't make a drinking game out of all the times Scott swears in this chapter because I don't want feel responsible for people being hospitalised); **_

_**Shipping Ahoy! (though not in this chapter, yet again)**_

_**Additional Info: Sorry for being late, this chapter sucks because I wrote most of it at night, I'm very displeased with the third part of the chapter, I solemnly swear Dawn and Scott will have better interactions soon but I just needed to get all of these things out of the way, and sorry for the length of this thing.**_

_**Yes, yes you may get actual explanations next chapter.**_

_**Now, let us proceed.**_

* * *

**-96 Days before the Blackout-**

_Post-Chase Haste_

Tap, tap, tap, tap. The tapping was rhythmical, yet chaotic at the same time. It filled the small, cramped room, and made the computer beep and hum in response. Lights flickered on and off on the screens surrounding the large figure on the chair as he typed away on the computer. In front of him, the main computer screen showed lines and lines of white code on black screen—appearing and disappearing and changing as he typed more, and more, and more. His blue eyes narrowed in concentration and he pressed a sharp key just as the door of the apartment slammed open and closed inhumanly fast. The guy wasn't the least disturbed; he didn't look up from the computer.

In a flurry of footsteps, Dawn Mercer appeared in the doorway of his room, her hair in complete disarray and her cheeks slightly flushed. Upon seeing him, her face morphed into a serene smile. This time, he looked up to give her a look.

_You're late, _it said, plainly.

"I'm well aware," she nodded then took something out from under the sweater she was wearing. Dreamcatchers. She shoved one in his direction. "I couldn't help myself. They're absolutely gorgeous, aren't they?"

B gave her an unimpressed look, not looking like he was anywhere near attempting to reach for the dreamcatcher. The girl let out a soft tut. "I swear, for a person with such a beautiful aura, you sure don't hold much appreciation for spiritual things, B."

He was silent, but then again, he always was. His eyes spoke for him, however.

_There's no time for spiritual things at the moment. How was the decoy?_

"Brilliant, of course," she perched herself up on his desk and started playing with the faux feathers of the dreamcatcher. "By now, I'd expect them to be setting off for California."

_California is one whole country away from here, Dawn._

Smiling mysteriously, she tugged at one beaded strand of the item in her hands. "I know."

B's eyes didn't leave the girl as she played on, tugging at and inspecting the dreamcatcher as if she was expecting it to reveal the secrets of the universe to her. Ever since he'd met her, he'd decided that Dawn Mercer was fascinating, powerful and completely and utterly dangerous at the same time. Sometimes, he forgot just _how _powerful she was, and how dangerous she could be if she acted out on that power. He knew her for over a year and yet, he still didn't seem to know more than her name and the fact she was just like him.

She, however, got him figured out—him, B Reed, the walking but not talking mystery—in less than a day's span.

It was unnerving sometimes to see her display such a huge amount of power with so much tranquility and well-disguised strategy.

"Quiet, aren't you?" she suddenly asked, and he could already imagine her laughing discreetly at her joke.

And for how sweet she seemed on the exterior and how tiny her voice sounded, she never seemed to forget to remember B just how much of a smug bitch she really was. Of course.

_Our progress rate is low, _he voiced his concerns by gesturing to the screen. Dawn craned her neck to look more closely. _Well, higher than usual, I guess, since no one's died in the past few weeks._

"I see," she murmured, her fingers still working at the dreamcatcher. "And what do you suggest we do?"

He smirked in her direction. _Buy you a book on how to develop social skills?_

She responded with a small, feigned pout. "That was rather uncalled for," then, she placed her elbows on her knees and her head on her palms, seeming to be deep in thought about something. Finally, she said: "Scott Barnett is just a difficult simple character."

He didn't bother to ask her what that meant—he knew that, despite being a genius with computers, spiritual concepts were lost on him no matter how thoroughly Dawn tried to explain them to him.

"I've got him figured out, of course," she assured him, almost instantly. Her eyes glazed over, as if she was sitting through the most boring but at the same time interesting class in the world and having to recite an answer word-for-word. "Bitter, unsympathetic—wasn't hugged enough as a child, if I'd have to guess. A strong inclination for destruction, especially self-inflicted." She paused again, and he waited. Her eyes lost the glazed quality and she looked straight at him as she spoke. "He'll come around, I assure you."

He nodded, albeit reluctantly. Scott Barnett had been the head of his 'unnecessary risk' list—the guy was too volatile, too unpredictable, and with a power like his, too dangerous. He'd been ready to give up on him a long time ago, but Dawn had insisted. She told him he was redeemable, that she could figure him out and set things right. Considering how, for the past year, Dawn had seemed to lose him subjects rather than convince them, he hadn't been thoroughly trusting of her. But somehow, like he always did, he gave in.

_Good. So you give him two days, right?_

"Two days tops," she confirmed.

_Then, we can go on with our plans. Martin and I will continue with the work I've been doing on Pearce._

She nodded, swinging her legs back and forth. He recognized the look—expectant. He couldn't help but widen his smirk, despite himself.

_You get to tackle Black._

* * *

_Parking Lot Blues and Ay, May Rosetti_

Trenton Delaney wasn't a huge institution and therefore, it didn't accommodate an overwhelmingly large amount of students. Provided, however, that the majority of these students owned a car, there was a parking lot situated in its proximity—close enough for a quick getaway, far enough so the students skipping class wouldn't be in the teachers' line of vision. It was a usual hang-out place for students, but now it was rather deserted.

Scott could see why—what loser skipped last period and stayed on technically school propriety? Upon closer inspection, he was the loser—he and a couple of other skippers who didn't have other things to do, other places to go, or actually found the place a good hang-out location.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth and blew away a puff of thick smoke. This was normal, this was usual. Skipping with Lightning and blowing joints in the middle of the parking lot was almost part of his routine, though not lately since he'd been actually trying, regardless of the fact he failed, to keep up with school. Yelling at Dawn Mercer on the school rooftop was not.

The reminder left him scowling.

"—and then she was like, _'Oh my God, you're such a fucking idiot' _but I swear to God, man, her hips _winked _at me."

Ah, yes, he'd forgotten Lightning was still talking. He rolled his eyes so hard he thought they would get stuck pointing at the sky.

"You claim every woman's hips 'wink' at you, doofus," he drawled, sarcastically accentuating the use of 'wink'. "'Sides, if Rosetti told you you're a fucking idiot, which you are, I'm pretty sure she meant it."

Lightning, to his credit, looked genuinely shocked. "Why'd she think that?"

"She's turned you down for months, and since you can't take a hint, you kind of leave that, y'know," he raised his eyebrows, and took a drag out of his cigarette. He exhaled. "Impression."

He neglected to tell him that the fact everything he said came out rather pig-headed might have had to do with it. If Rosetti hadn't been clear enough with that already, the prospect of Scott succeeding was laughable.

He scrunched up his nose. "Yeah, well, I'm still smarter than that Italian boy toy of hers—Victor Harper, or whatever."

"Right," Scott agreed half-heartedly, taking another drag from his cigarette. Drag, inhale, exhale. Drag, inhale, exhale.

"And I do sports, so I'm actually buffer. And hotter."

Drag, inhale, exhale. Drag, inhale… Scott looked up to see Lightning looking back at him, expectantly. He furrowed his eyebrows.

"The fuck you want me to tell you? Look, I couldn't give less of a damn if Rosetti wants to bone you or not. _I _sure as heck don't."

"Dude!" Lightning exclaimed, looking at him in unmasked disgust. "That's not what I was asking to hear."

Scott rolled his eyes and focused on his almost finished cigarette. A small part of him, a really small part of him urged him to light it up—set it completely on fire. He could; he knew that as he felt the warm tingling at his fingertips. But ignoring for one moment the fact that Lightning would flip the fuck out and probably blame it on the post-Mercer curse, using his 'abilities' would mean he was giving in to what Dawn had told him, back on the rooftop.

He could still see her, in the back of his mind. Her wind blowing in the air, that impossibly calm face staring back at him, and the partial absence of the sun casting weird shadows on her face, making her look more threatening than she really was. But most disconcerting wasn't her appearance, but her words.

'_You shouldn't hide them, or try to push them away, you know. They can feel it anyway—you might as well try to gain control over them.'_

They could feel it. Who could? Was Mercer implying there were more people like her—freaks of the nature who thought they could guess a person's life story just by looking at their 'aura' and palms, and who possibly got the arguments to bake them up through stalking? But no matter how much stalking she'd done, Scott was pretty sure she wouldn't have been able to find out something _that _personal about him. Nobody knew.

A stinging pain hit his fingers. Cursing, he dropped the cigarette and glared at the small burn that had formed because of the falling ash. Stupid, hellish, fucking—

"She really got to you, ain't she?"

Scott turned his head to look at Lightning, just about to tell him something vile enough that it would get him detention on school grounds—he stopped in his tracks at the serious, concerned and almost meditative expression on his face. He'd never seen Lightning McCoy look like that; he highly doubted anyone had, actually. But there he was, in the parking lot, giving him what was probably the deepest, most meaningful look he was able to conceive.

This day had gone from weird to freakish.

Dumbfounded and having forgotten the question, he asked: "What?"

Lightning sighed. "Mercer, man. Mercer. She's got to you—_bad,"_ he pursed his lips. "Look, I don't actually think she's killing people. I mean," and he let out a huff of laughter, "seriously, that tiny thing couldn't kill anyone if she tried to."

That's what she wanted to make people think, Scott couldn't help the thought. She put on this flowery, calm hippie front, told them to save the animals and that all life was sacred. Nobody was buying it ever since the first victim.

"But," Lightning continued, oblivious to his friend's train of thought, "there's definitely something off about her. I don't like that."

Scoffing, Scott stomped on his still burning cigar and put it off with the heel of his shoe. "She's just a freak," then, he rather sarcastically added: "Maybe she does that voodoo crap you see at TV—stick it to the doll and the next thing you know, people drop dead."

"Dude, that just gave me the shivers. Do you think she actually does that?"

Scott shrugged, hoping he'd drop the subject. For someone who'd just said he wanted to take his mind off Mercer, he sure brought her up a lot in this conversation. He looked around the parking lot, trying to make Lightning see his blatant disinterest in the topic, when someone caught his eye. He smirked.

"I mean—"

"Oy, Rosetti!" he found himself yelling, on a whim.

In hindsight, drawing other people's attention to himself and riling up Anne Maria Rosetti were both equally bad ideas in entirely different ways; but compared to the direction the conversation was taking and his best friend's inability to realize when to shut the fuck up, he found any cons that could come out of it bearable enough.

The girl looked up at once, even going as far as comically arching her back and snapping her head in his direction, her smug, completely disinterested expression quickly morphing into a glare the second she'd noticed who she was dealing with. In Scott's most honest opinion, glaring didn't do any favors to her face, which was caked in so much make-up and fake tan he was left wondering whether her skin would fall off from it anytime soon, or if she'd been actually born looking that way. He couldn't say he understood what Lightning saw in her—or maybe he had special vision that could see through all those layers of junk on her face—but he, personally, had never seen her as anything other than fake, tacky, and pretty much annoying.

To add to the effect Rosetti left on him, it was also rumored around the school that she'd faked her test results countless times (not very hard to believe), that she went by a fake surname (plausible enough), and that she'd gotten implants (he had absolutely no intention to check).

It took him more than he was proud to admit to notice Lightning had left his side and was in the process of crossing the parking lot to where the girl was standing. Figures that alone would be enough to distract his attention.

Scott took one last glance at the still smoldering cigarette butt he'd left on the floor before moving his gaze to his friend's retreating back and taking a couple tentative steps to the side. Theoretically, this was the moment where he would seize his chance and skip out—possibly waste time in the pub a couple blocks down, because he had close to no intention to going back to school so soon. By the time Lightning would realize he'd been ditched (if he ever would, considering his company was the infamous Miss Rosetti), he'd already be out of reach, and afterwards he'd go straight back to class and sleep his way through it. Lightning, not the brightest bulb in the box and definitely not best known for his attention span, would forget all about it and let it slide by the end of the day.

But somehow, as he looked back at Rosetti's expression, which had morphed into something beyond disgust and simple annoyance at Lightning's approach, he silently wondered whether he would be held accountable for the great dumbass's murder.

Just as he was going to dismiss the thought and assure himself he could definitely manage to get through it, he heard his name being called.

"Yo, Scott! Ya' gonna stand there all day or what?" Lightning called over his shoulder, and for a moment Scott found himself slightly stunned by the fact he'd even be reminded of his existence while the one girl he'd been going on and on about for a while was around.

He quickly dismissed _that _thought, though, telling himself he'd been too slow getting away and Lightning had been intimidated by the look Rosetti was giving him, and therefore needed back-up.

He burrowed his hands in his pockets, pushed any thoughts in a corner once it was decided he didn't give a damn, and followed his supposed best friend over to Rosetti, who, as off-put as she looked by their presence, hadn't made an attempt to walk away yet.

"So, what's up baby?" despite only seeing the back of his head, Scott could basically _feel _him winking, and mentally groaned. Anne Maria, though, groaned out loud for him. "D'ya come here looking for a thunderstorm?"

_Oh God, not that line._

"'Cause if you did," he made a turn and attempted to smoothly put a hand on her shoulder—but to his credit, removed it the moment she shook him off, "Well, you definitely found Lightning."

She rolled her eyes, rather pointedly. "So does Lighty come with an off switch or whatever?" she moved her gaze towards Scott, who shrugged.

"Hell if I know. I'm still trying to find it," he replied, pretty earnestly, with his usual smirk.

There was really not one instance in which he was willing to defend Lightning, like a proper best friend would, especially considering the last of his brain cells seemed to stop working around Rosetti—which ironically worked against his efforts to come off as even a bit impressive.

"Dude," on Lightning's face there was a mixture between a scowl and a pout. "Not cool."

"Feh," Scott reached into his pocket to take out yet another cigarette, put it between his lips and lit it up. He took a long drag—he deserved this much, since today had taken a very wrong turn and added even more unnecessary stress on his plate.

Rosetti was watching him with interest. "Got a spare?"

Before Scott could scowl and tell her to piss off, Lightning intervened a bit more smoothly than usual, to his credit, "I do," and shoved a cig and a lighter her way.

She accepted them, rather hesitantly, and within seconds, puffed out smoke with a rather displeased look on her face.

"I hate these things," she declared, but took another drag nonetheless. Scott could relate all too well.

"So, now really," Lightning spoke up after a moment of silence, folding his arms over his chest. "Whaddya doing here? Didn't know you're the type to skip. I mean, you don't look it."

Surprisingly, he'd managed to look her in the eye while saying it, which left Scott to wonder if he really was that stupid. A complete stranger could _and _would peg her for skipping, for Christ's sake. But the comment seemed to please Anne Maria, or at least made her slightly less angry, since she actually bothered to reply.

"I was lookin' for my boyfriend," she gave an once-over to the parking lot before turning her eyes back to them. Scott noticed that Lightning's grin had dropped a fraction of an inch. "Vito," the girl clarified.

"Thought his name was Victor," Scott interrupted, although he didn't really care.

Rosetti gave Lightning a look (so she was sharper than Scott had first thought of her) and shook her head. "No, it's_ Vito_. D'ya see him around?"

"Don't even know what the guy looks like." _Don't even care, either._

"Like a douchebag," Lightning piped up, subjecting himself to yet another death glare.

"That'd be you, _stronzo_," the girl scoffed, putting the cig back to her lips and raising her other hand to inspect her clip-on nails. "But figures he wouldn't be here."

"Well yea—"

"Then why are you looking here?" Scott interrupted Lightning, although there wasn't much point to it. Who cared about Rosetti and her new boy toy and where she was looking for him?

But a small part of him probably wanted to pay Lightning back for going full Spanish inquisition on him about Mercer and refusing to shut up even after Scott had given him all the signals. That must've been it.

Looking at Rosetti, he'd honestly expected her to glare and mouth him off, or punch him in the gut—from what he'd heard, she could be pretty temperamental. Instead, she stayed calm, picking at the corner of a nail seemingly without giving them or the conversation any importance.

"Didn't plan on it, to be honest," she frowned, only slightly. "Then some creepy ass weirdoes started followin' me."

Scott, his cigarette half-way to his mouth, directed his full attention to her; Lightning was doing the same.

"At first I thought, yeah, it's some kinda coincidence, y'know?" she was gesticulating now, and the nonchalance didn't disappear from her tone, though it did waver. "Then it just got _waaaay _much and I was just about to turn 'round and give 'em a piece of my mind but then…"

Ash fell from the end of Scott's cigarette and on the ground, but he paid no attention to it. Rosetti's eyebrows were furrowed, as if she was trying to remember something and for the life of her, couldn't.

"But then?" Lightning pressed, in the same tone and patience you would hear from a kid being told a story and left at a cliffhanger.

"Then I lost 'em and got here so I figured, why not check?" she ended, hastily, followed by another drag.

Scott scowled, the unsettling feeling he'd tried to push in the back of his mind coming back full-force. A bunch of creeps following Rosetti and Mercer cornering him? They couldn't be related, though. He didn't even know why he was bothering to think about it.

Fucking Mercer and her creepy talk.

"Well if those creeps ever come back, call me, 'kay?" his best friend offered. The honesty in his tone made Scott want to throw up. "I'll take care of 'em for you. Sha-Lightning!"

He flexed the muscles of his right hand and Scott wanted to smack him and smack himself for associating with the idiot. Rosetti seemed to be thinking along the same lines because she just furrowed her eyebrows even more and muttered a half-hearted "Right…", looking torn between being mad at the guy, laughing at him, and expressing concern for his health.

"But damn," the most athletic of the bunch scratched the back of his head. "Weird day today. You bein' stalked by creeps, Barnett being stalked by Mercer—"

"_Mercer?_" that got her attention, and gone was the nonchalant air she adopted up until then. Her eyes, too, had widened to the size of saucers, and if Scott hadn't imagined it, she took a step back. "Dawn way-too-white-girl Mercer? _The Grim Reaper Mercer? _The gho—"

"Yeah," he snapped. "Dawn freaking Mercer. Glad we cleared that up."

Rosetti stopped and let out a low whistle. "…I dunno if I'll find the time but, like, maybe I could show up to your funeral or whatever. I don't think I wanna be cursed, though, so, yeah."

If there had been a moment when Scott called Anne Maria Rosetti sharper than she looked, he definitely took it back.

* * *

_You Can't Pick your Stalkers_

On his way home, although he would rather die than admit it, Scott looked over his shoulder about ten times, and three times he circled around his route and took additional turns for a reason he couldn't explain. It would be probably credited to the feeling of unsettlement Mercer—ah, there she was again in his thoughts, the witch—had planted in him. He only had a quarter of the way left when the wind picked up and he heard the rustling of leaves.

He took another sharp turn.

Shit, just _shit. _He was being irrational. He was turning into one of those paranoid nutjobs he used to jeer at and purposefully aggravate for the hell of it. Those jittery, shaky twerps who kept looking over their shoulder and just waited for the moment someone would strike against them—which happened exactly because they slipped into shakiness and paranoia and therefore as good as hung a metaphorical 'Hit me; I have it coming' sign over their backs.

But as biased as it was, scheming against people who ticked him held nothing to Dawn Mercer, who talked like she belonged in the asylum. And yet, he thought, as he stopped walking for a moment, that he was Scott Barnett and therefore not one of those simpering wimps who let words and threats get to them and left themselves open for attack.

Yet, even with his less than extraordinary memory, he could still hear Rosetti:

"_Some creepy ass weirdoes started followin' me."_

And like some twisted sort of echo, Mercer follower right after, the memory of her voice even clearer.

"_They can feel it anyway."_

They—plural. He was fairly decent at English, or at least enough to realize as much. And a paranoid freak, unlike Scott, would overthink it and relate it to Rosetti's stalkers, and maybe they would even go as far as theorizing that what if—_what if _Rosetti's stalkers weren't _her _stalkers, but his? The paranoid freak's, that is. His stalkers, Dawn Mercer and her gang of some sort, and she'd personally came to deliver a warning—

"You're taking the wrong way."

His heart stopped in his chest and, he would _definitely _not admit it later, but he might've let out a scream. Whether it was his or not, there certainly was a scream, and even though he deducted it hadn't been his stalker who'd screamed, if only for the sake of his pride he would definitely pretend it was.

"What the fuck_—_What are you—" His heart had now doubled its speed, hammering away in his chest as he narrowed his eyes at Dawn Mercer. Her gaze remained as serene and unperturbed as always, and her posture relaxed.

Scott, however, had reached a new peak of frustration. "What the _fuck_?" he asked again, although more loudly. They were on a side road, almost lost to society considering the lack of people around them, so his voice was the only thing he could hear for a moment, then silence ensured.

It was as if every nerve in Scott's body was active and burning, but his blood felt ice cold. He didn't care. He wasn't some kind of pansy who cowered at the sight of a girl half his size and her gang of voodoo buddies.

Every student Dawn Mercer had approached ended up dead or severely injured, all over the news.

"What do you think you're doing?" he sneered, and to his relief, seemed to come off as a little more composed—maybe enough so he could overlook the fact he'd just screamed at the sight of her.

She, just as calm as usual, didn't make eye contact, choosing instead to look him up and down (a shiver of disgust ran down his spine, and his anger sparked up once again, warming the tips of his fingertips), as if he was a lab rat and she, the scientist, observing the effects of her little experiment. He'd never felt so much rage and disgust for one person in his whole life—and God knew Scott Barnett had felt a lot of rage and disgust over the years. No, but this rage and disgust and just the insulting way Dawn Mercer regarded him so calmly and impassively seemed to have started to overpower any fear he might've felt because of her, even if momentarily.

He was not her lab rat or any kind of rat. He, a couple months ago when they still had the old farm, would be the one to _whack_ rats and whatever small critters he found—chase them around just for the hell of it and smash them to death. He was nothing like those dumb, hopeless creatures, especially not to Dawn Mercer.

A flash of a thought crossed his mind, of him holding the bat, and his palms grew hotter. Scott clenched his fists, tightly, and stopped just as the blonde started speaking.

"Just pointing out you were taking the wrong way," she stated, casually, as if they were just classmates chatting idly and she'd said nothing ordinary to him—not today, not ever. "Unless, of course, you weren't going home."

The look on her face suggested she knew precisely that he was going home, and the little invasion of privacy had him more insulted than fearful, if he was ready to admit it now. Scott was a proud person, and Dawn Mercer had fucked with his head enough for one day.

"How'd you know?" he was obviously angry now.

"Sorry?"

"How'd you know I'm going the wrong way?"

He was briefly reminded of something similar having happened before—he touched the cuff of his jacket. She'd known that once, but, as she'd said, it wasn't hard to suspect. As if sensing this, she smiled.

"Oh, but I don't think you'd like it if I told you," she replied, easily. She leaned back against the back wall of the many buildings lined alongside the road, and softly traced the pattern of a carving done on the wall—a dove, and from what Scott could tell, the work of a beginner. "So let's call it a little bit of intuition."

"Intuition my ass," he snapped almost instantly. "What are you after, and why aren't you going away?"

She had the nerve to sigh. "Scott, this really is that simple. You must want answers, and I have those answers. I just need you to stop for a moment and listen."

He must have imagined it, but a faint crease had appeared between her eyebrows and for a fraction of a second, she sounded almost angry. But he blinked, and it went away, so he figured he had imagined it and then remembered he didn't care.

"Of course, I suggested you look for me, but we both know you wouldn't have unless things got…" she paused, and her mind seemed to be elsewhere, "…ugly," she finally decided, and closed her eyes. "Unfortunately for you, I can't afford things to get ugly. So here I am."

And then her eyes were open again, bright blue but awfully devoid of emotion. She'd stopped the movement of her fingers, and her nail covered the head of the poorly craved dove—it was one awfully long nail, almost close to Rosetti's clip-ons, but not nearly as well-kept. The more things he noticed about her (he really tried not to notice too many) the more he heard the words witch and freak echo through his mind.

"Well, unfortunately for _you, _things are already ugly," he adopted his usual tone—snarky, taunting and most importantly of all, confident. "And by things, I mean you. And I don't need any 'answers' or whatever and I don't want be part of your hocus-pocus club. I just need you to leave me the hell alone for the time being, and go work on your human sacrifices and get someone else to 'help'."

This time she really looked miffed—aghast, even. She'd stopped moving altogether, her jaw slack.

"I would _never_ do sacrifices, human or not. _Ever,_" she insisted, narrowing her eyes, and Scott's smirk widened. He'd touched a sensitive topic, alright. "Nor do I do murder, but you insist on not believing that, too. Why won't you understand I want to help?"

But judging by the look she was giving him, it wasn't a question; it was an accusation of some sort.

"There's nothing you can help with, and if I ever need help, I definitely won't ask for yours," he scoffed in her direction, suddenly feeling a lot more confident than angry. "The best you can do is back off and leave me the hell _alone._"

They stared at each other for a longer while than usual, and this time he really couldn't make anything of her expression. It stayed perfectly blank and perfectly still, until she moved her eyes and her lips quirked as if she'd come to a realization.

"No."

He could feel his temper rising again—she'd just refused to stop stalking him claiming she 'wants to help'. She was crazy, a psycho, she belonged in a psychiatric ward. But even with no prospect of weird powers involved, she was good at reading people, and she would know he wouldn't be the one to get her locked up.

"You really don't get it, do you?" he asked instead, and surprised himself by approaching her (but Mercer didn't seem surprised in the least). "You're not the only one with a rep 'round the school Mercer, yeah? I could ruin your life and laugh all the way until I die and they show my corpse on the local news."

And then she smirked, and Scott's mind went blank. "Oh, I've heard. And all those schemes, they're pretty underhanded. It's almost disappointing," her smirk slowly faded. "But you know, Scott? All those things you use against people—friends, social lives, reputations, records. I have none of those."

Her tone didn't express longing, or anything akin to sadness. She was just stating facts—but now, she wasn't looking at him anymore, but further down the road, with precise attention.

"You can't do anything to hurt me."

"Are you really that sure about that?"

He clenched and unclenched his fist out of habit, vaguely realizing the temperature would pick up—and suddenly, stopped. It would only take one minute to get it out of his grasp if he did anything stupid. And then who knew what would happen, and Dawn Mercer could be as good as dead within seconds, whether that had been his intention or not.

Witch or not, and disregarding what he'd told her on the roof, he was in no way ready to face the aftermath.

"But you wouldn't do _that _on purpose," she spoke, as if she had been reading his mind the entire time. "That's what makes the difference."

But did it really make a difference afterwards, when he was standing in a pile of rubble and ash with a dead body in front of him? No, he was absolutely sure it didn't.

"You don't know shit about me, so stop assuming," he snapped, burrowing his hands in the pockets of his jacket despite knowing that made no difference, either. "And stop doing that—acting like you can read my mind so you can threaten me or whatever. It's pathetic and freakish."

"I'm not acting like I can read your mind," Mercer moved her gaze back to him after concluding that there was nothing interesting to see on the empty road. "I'm just trying to connect with you on a spiritual level and have a conversation. It's really not my fault you're resisting so hard and I have to keep reading between the lines."

"Jesus C—All this time I've been saying that I _don't _want to 'have a conversation'," he raised his voice a couple octaves and he took out his hands to make air quotes, deliberately mocking her, "Especially not with you. So scram and do your thing where you get me killed, or whatever."

And now she looked the closest to bored he'd ever seen her look. "And all this time, _I _have been saying the whole point of us talking is so you _don't _get killed. Scott, I know you can listen, just admit you want to."

A small, traitorous part of him was almost curious of what she would tell him, of the things she was trying to explain. It was the same part of him that had decided, months ago, that he was definitely in control of his powers, and look how cool they were, and maybe he could show them to someone and they'd be so proud of him and in awe. He was thoroughly disgusted with that part of him.

"Listen to me for once and I promise I'll explain and it will make sense."

"_No,"_ and he was resolute about it. The most resolute he'd been about anything for a while. "I told you before and I'm pretty fucking sick of repeating myself. I don't want to hear your explanations, or to have anything to do with you or my—'powers' or whatever. I'm not some freak experiment of yours."

"That's not the point. It's for your own safety—"

"Hah. Is that what you told everyone you killed?"

"I didn't kill them. Any of them. And by the way, ignoring your powers is not the good way to get in control of them—"

"You're talking crap and you're delusional."

"—and I know about the accident and—"

His heart nearly stopped again, and he almost felt his throat clench. "You don't know shit."

Her gaze seemed to soften, which only served to infuriate him. "I do, though. None of it was your fau—"

"We're _not _talking about this."

She stopped, pursing her lips, but no definite emotion could be read on her face. In that moment, Scott found himself wanting to do a lot of things he wouldn't admit to have ever thought of doing—like making a run for it, or taking it out on Mercer, or throwing up, or just curling up in a ball and crying because Mercer was wrong. It _had _been all his fault, and he didn't like to talk about it, and would rather talk about it with anyone other than her. Even Lightning, who would probably not understand and get scared, and then after he started to think of him as a murderer, would probably fuck the hell off.

And all of his, all of it messing up his mind was because of Mercer.

"You're right," she told him after a long, drawn-out moment of silence during which Scott was left with conflicting thoughts and silently wondering why he hadn't walked away by now. "It's not the right place to talk about this."

And to his further astonishment, she not only completely missed the point, but was also taking out a bit of paper and, within the next moment, scribbling something down on it. He could make his escape now, but the rational side of him, who rarely spoke up, reminded him she'd caught up with him before, at school. The piece of paper was then thrust in his direction.

He made no movement to grab it, but read it over anyway. It was an address, from what he could tell, but Mercer's handwriting was pretty messy, so he couldn't make out the actual details on first sight.

"I have some things to attend to today," she informed him, as if she was pretending he actually cared. "But you can go look for me at this address tomorrow after school. We can talk here."

Again, he made no movement to grab the paper.

"Honestly, you take this and I'm going to stop bothering you. I guess when it comes down to it, it's really your choice whether you want to listen to me or not."

Begrudgingly, he snatched the paper from her hand and stayed silent, although he had a couple choice words he could tell Mercer in that very moment. It was better to just shut up and not encourage her to talk more. Then she'd fuck off, and he'd go home, and everything would go back to normal until she decided he would die.

Scott had decided a while ago that dying wasn't much of a tragedy as much as it was a disappointment.

"Think about it very well. It's not like you have anything to lose by listening, you know," she started moving away from him and in the opposite direction he would be taking, and he scowled at her retreating back, very tempted to yell something a little bit more than impolite after her.

And when she was a couple steps ahead, she stopped again and turned her head to look at him with a disturbingly content smile. "You're very stubborn, you know." And then she faced forward and began to walk again. "I'll see you soon."

_Like hell you will._

He looked down at the paper in his hand and contemplated making an exception and using his powers just this once to burn it and just get over with it because there was absolutely no way he would go _looking _for Dawn Mercer, not because of curiosity and not because of anything else.

Grumbling, he stuffed the paper into his pocket, and continued walking his way home.

* * *

_And Back to Business_

She looked extremely out of place in the gym. A lot of people craned their heads just to look at the peculiar sight of the tiny, frail looking blonde crossing the threshold, looking even smaller in her usual baggy sweater, skirt and leggings combination. At first glance, one would say she came to the wrong place, because she looked nothing like she'd deliberately went there to train.

One wouldn't be exactly wrong, because Dawn Mercer had more important business at the gym than working on her muscles.

As soon as they stopped staring, she began to look over the many strained faces, working themselves up at various machines when—there. Her eyes landed on her person of interest.

No official around had questioned her presence—they never did. As long as she assured them she had no intention of using their equipment without paying, it was fair game. That's how everything went around in the town, depressingly enough, and the lack of interest and competence just further justified the fact no murders have ever been explained (and the fact high school students all tied them to one person definitely did not count).

Dawn wasn't sure whether the police being incompetent was working with or against them—if, provided people had an idea of what was going on, they would take the side of the hunters or the side of the flawed. One small variable that could change the entire scheme and flip it so it advantages one side or the other—it could help them live, or it could encourage their massacre.

Nevertheless, she started making her way to her target, who was training with a lot more vigor than many of the other gym-goers. She stood there for a while, just waiting, until they stopped their training enough to notice her presence.

The person raised her head, tilting it in Dawn's direction with a raised eyebrow—and expression that many would've found particularly threatening. Dawn smiled, unaffected.

"Jo Black… Was it?" she asked after a while, although she already knew the answer.

Jo lifted herself up from where she was sitting on the mat and pushed her dirty blond hair out of her eyes.

"Yeah, what of it?"


End file.
